


rabbit hearted

by moderatelymothlike



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Love/Hate, M/M, POV Andrew Minyard, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Suicidal Ideation, soulmarks are like mood rings but on skin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29101107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moderatelymothlike/pseuds/moderatelymothlike
Summary: "Congratulations. On the game. Earlier," Andrew says, going for offhanded and landing just south of that. He watches Neil pick up the glass too closely to persuade anyone of his indifference.Neil looks at the opaque liquid within the shot, like if he stares long enough, it'll tell him a secret. "Coward," he remarks casually, still examining the glass. It's said in the same tone one might saythank you,oroops,orokay.Andrew raises an eyebrow. "A harsh judgment, considering you haven't even tried it yet."—Andrew meets Neil again, after some years. Maybe this time things will work out better.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 35
Kudos: 139
Collections: AFTG Mixtape Exchange 2021





	1. hang yourself on a silken cloud

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RhymeReason](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhymeReason/gifts).



> The first chapter of this fic was written for the AFTG Mixtape Exchange, based around the song Downhill by Lincoln.
> 
> I've since decided to expand it, and I feel that it has become its own work. Hence, I've taken the songfic tag away, as the later chapters are not in any way related to the song Downhill. I've also changed the work name to better reflect the fic in its entirety. 
> 
> Please enjoy.
> 
> This is set in an AU in which, besides the existence of soulmates, the other major difference is that the Moriyamas were a non issue.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sardonic sort of wrath descends upon a sports bar.

The best part about working at the Foxhole is being paid in alcohol. Andrew gets off at three tonight, and he fully plans on passing out with a bottle of vodka shortly afterwards.

He doesn't miss the stupid court-ordered drugs, but the blankness they settled onto him doesn't come easy now. Alcohol dulls him too much, sharpens the knife sometimes. 

He craves it—the luxury of not caring about anything, of not being phased, ever. Andrew thinks about that time as little as he can. He thinks about it all the time. 

The worst part about working at the Foxholeis the owner's freakish obsession with exy. Accordingly, it's packed tonight. The city's team is playing a home game so . Usually, he manages to avoid shifts on exy nights. Bad enough it's the Raiders. A home game will stretch the limits of his patience to dangerous extremes. 

God, Andrew fucking hates exy. 

People swarm the bar, yelling orders. Overheard, tiny figures zoom across the TV mounted on the wall. "Wexley makes a pass to Berger, just manages before, oof, a nasty check from Yates!" A commentator exclaims, her voice reaching every corner of the cluttered space.

Andrew frowns. He slaps the cap onto the shaker and raises it, mixing vigorously. He pours the daiquiri into an empty glass, shoves it onto the bar roughly, and starts on the next drink. 

It wobbles for a moment, threatening to tip over, but Andrew doesn't stabilize it. Part of him wants it to smash against the floor, sending slush and shards spraying across the slick surface. The rest of him doesn't care much either way. 

He watches as the glass twirls out of a final revolution and settles onto its base. 

Andrew sighs. Pity. 

"...Berger attempts a shot on goal but it goes wide," the announcer says. "Berger checked by Thom, quite an unreasonable maneuver, ah yes, there we go, the Raiders lose possession, reset to first court." A loud chorus of boos. 

With their beloved team's setback comes a fresh wave of drink requests. 

When he resurfaces, Andrew tries very hard to absorb the noise of the drunk idiots around him instead of the commentary drifting from above. It's basically impossible, but he tries. He listens to one girl describe her latest fight with her boyfriend (it's apparently dreadfully awful and he's, like, emotionally abusive). He pops an extra maraschino cherry into her drink idly. 

He's making yet another round of cocktails for the party of women who've had too much already (but won't admit it) when it happens. 

"Berger passes to Josten!" The other commentator says, his voice rising with barely suppressed excitement. 

Andrew freezes. It's a nasty jolt every time, to hear that name, even though it's no surprise. Still. His grip on the shaker gets a little tenuous, but he holds on, shaking it close to his ear, but nothing drowns out the commentator's next sentence, which he roars. It's impossible to miss.

"Josten squeezes past Langley, tricky shot there, bounces it off the wall and...and it's in! The ball flies right between Wade's legs before he can react and it's a goal for the Cardinals, who lead three to two in this heated match with forty seconds left on the clock." 

The bar erupts in outrage. 

The orders arrive in a deluge, faster than ever as people drown their disappointment in alcohol, but Andrew's stopped moving. His ears roar with the din of the bar. His mouth tastes inexplicably sour. 

It would be his team tonight, it would be his goal, it would be Josten's goal. 

—

_"I've never belonged to anyone before, but it's you. It's us." Neil ducks his head shyly, missing the blankness on Andrew's face. "We're meant for each other."_

_(We're meant for each other, aren't we, baby boy, just the two of us, come here, you're mine, you're mine, you belong to me)_

_"I am not yours, Neil Josten, and you are not mine. I am not anyone's anything," Andrew says slowly. This is the beginning of the end. This is the moment his world ends._

_Neil frowns, caught between impatience and exhilaration. It makes him loud. It makes him blind. "What? This isn't possession, Andrew, this is something more. Can't you see it?"_

( _we're more than just soulmates aren't we, we're special. you were made for me. you're my perfect match. no one else would even look at you anyway)_

_Andrew wants to fucking die. He wants to shred the bracers off his arms, strip the flesh beneath, grind the bones under that into dust. It's a familiar feeling, an old friend._

" _This—-no. No." He scrabbles at his arms but can't find purchase. The smooth black of his wraps mock him, they stretch on endlessly._

_He stumbles backward wildly, looking away, looking anywhere other than that tiny patch of skin on Neil's chest, which is currently a sickly yellow. Like pus. Like venom, something awful and poisonous. Something that should be purged._

_"No," he says, "No," jamming his feet into his shoes, coat clutched in his hand._

_"Please," Neil says too loudly, confused, "I don't—-"_

_"Fuck off," Andrew says blindly, to the tall, grinning spectre superimposed over Neil. "Fuck you and fuck off."_

_Neil grabs him by the shoulder as he slams the door open. His grip isn't heavy, just enough pressure that it's there, but Andrew stills utterly. It's Neil's hand on his shoulder, warm and steady, but it's also not his hand, and that other, chilled, skeletal hand crushes the bones beneath it, grinds them to dust._

_Andrew makes some sort of noise, some awful wounded thing caught between a sob and a scream. Instinctively, he rakes his fingers forward, connecting with something. The world is dark around the edges; he can barely think. He hears a sick crunch, a pained gasp, then Neil's hand drops away as if scalded and Andrew is stumbling out of his apartment and down the stairs and away and Neil does not come after him._

_Andrew runs anyway, his shoes coming off halfway down the street. He runs until he can't feel his feet, until he trips over nothing and falls, bloodying his knees and palms, gagging until he vomits right onto the asphalt._

_There is blood on his knuckles._

_The air is cold and still. Andrew is alone, but he isn't. He feels the phantom hand on the nape of his neck, feels it sliding downwards. He heaves again, scrabbling uselessly at the road._

—

Andrew knows enough about professional Exy, had picked up enough by working in the Foxhole to know that there is only one Josten in the league, on the D.C Cardinals. And if the Cardinals are playing the Raiders tonight, then. Then. 

Then Neil Josten is within ten miles of Andrew for the first time in two years.

The Foxhole isn't far from the stadium. Everything else about it sucks, but its location is prime, supposedly. Wymack claims it makes up for the shitty floorplan and utilities and expensive rent. Andrew hasn't felt numb since the last time he took a pill, but something of that familiar blankness descends again. It's a welcome sensation. 

"Hey!" A voice barks, breaking through the fog. "What the fuck are you doing? We're swamped! Make some goddamn drinks!" 

Andrew looks up. Seth, the other bartender, is glaring over. 

"Right," Andrew says peaceably. "Will do."

Seth frowns, maybe at his easy acquiescence. Andrew does not care enough to speculate. "Whatever, freak," he mutters, turns back to his half-made mojito without another word. 

Andrew looks down again. He's been cleaning an already clean glass for who knows how long. The game is over. Angry locals are rising and swarming the counter. 

It's a little like being a small boat on an enormous, raging ocean, but Andrew can't seem to summon any emotion. He is pleasantly insulated, a blessing he doesn't prod further than receiving it. 

He makes drinks smiling, hands them off smiling, and people frown and peer dubiously into their cups. Eventually, his side of the bar gets less crowded. Seth's side is worse than before. Andrew watches serenely and makes no offer to help. 

—

He's thought the scenario through thousands of times. Different parameters. He goes, Neil comes. He's worked through thousands of behavioral patterns in his head. He could apologize, or beg, or any number of things. Neil might yell or curse or just not say anything at all. Andrew has never actually decided on what he'd do. He'd been so confident that Neil would never hunt him down, not after the way they'd left things. He hadn't accounted for this. 

A stupid accident. Dumb luck. A stroke of fate. A cursed moment. Andrew can't quite decide. 

"I'll have a Hell's Fury," says a familiar voice, low but pitched to carry in the din of the bar. The phrase _hell is empty and all the demons are here_ pops unbidden into his head. Out of sight, his arm tingles. 

I should have worked at theRaven's Cry after all, Andrew thinks absently as he takes in the glorious sight that is a damp haired Neil Josten, flush with victory. His eyes, half-lidded, watch Andrew carefully. He's leaning against the bar, his entire body relaxed. Too relaxed by far. He looks dangerous. 

He looks delicious. 

All that stands between them is two feet of wood.

"You may as well," Andrew says blankly, an empty smile on his lips. He wonders if he sounds winded. Neil has that sort of effect on people even if they're not—-. Even if they're not Andrew, who can't quite catch his breath. He rubs his right arm briefly and reaches backward without looking, closing his fingers around the bottle of black absinthe tucked in the back corner of the lowest shelf. In the year and a half he's worked here, it's never been poured. The surface is thick with dust. Probably because it's disgusting, and no one in their right mind wants any. 

Andrew says as much. 

Neil just smiles. 

It's sort of devastating, but Andrew rolls his eyes instead. "Your funeral," he says. 

Neil's smile only widens. 

Fine, Andrew thinks darkly as he assembles the drink, _your fucking funeral_. He decants rum, cinnamon whiskey, and fucking _Everclear_ into a container together (Neil is insane, Andrew thinks blankly. Something happened since...everything and now he's crazy). He adds the absinthe last. 

Andrew raises his hands to shake the mixture, and Neil finally exhibits something other than the cheerful happiness he's wearing like an ill-fitting suit.

Andrew senses Neil's surprise without even looking: his arms are uncovered, and the knotted mass of scar tissue on his right arm tingles under the scrutiny. He ignores it, just shakes and shakes the mixer because his mind is blank, and he can't picture what will happen when he slides the drink across the bar in a moment or two. What if Neil takes it and leaves?

What if he takes it and _stays_? 

But he can't shake the drink forever, so he finally pours it and sets it down between them. 

"Congratulations. On the game. Earlier," Andrew says, going for offhanded and landing just south of that. He watches Neil pick up the glass too closely to persuade anyone of his indifference.

Neil looks at the opaque liquid within the shot, like if he stares long enough, it'll tell him a secret. "Coward," he remarks casually, still examining the glass. It's said in the same tone one might say _thank you,_ or _oops,_ or _okay_. 

Andrew raises an eyebrow. "A harsh judgment, considering you haven't even tried it yet." 

Neil snorts. He sets the drink down carelessly, sloshing more than half of it onto the already sticky wood. 

"That's a forty dollar shot," Andrew points out. 

"Oops," Neil says, like he means _good_ or _oh well_ instead. His grin is back. It's well constructed, but something about it rings hollow. 

Andrew considers Neil for a moment. 

"So," he says eventually, as the inky liquid spreads slowly. "First time in Seattle?" 

Neil laughs at that, tipping his head back and exposing the long curve of his throat. The sight ensnares Andrew so completely that it isn't until Neil tucks his chin and sets his eyes on him that Andrew finally admits that Neil is utterly, incandescently, furious. 

They are starting to attract attention. The Boar's Den is raucous and busy, but Neil scored the winning goal tonight in front of thousands, and probably thousands more on screens. The relative anonymity of being sans gear does not prevent him from being recognized for long. Andrew remembers how good Neil is at going unnoticed when he wants to be, but it's not without limits. Especially when his eyes are practically ablaze, glinting in the dim light. 

"Had I known," Neil snarls, each word torn from his throat with great reluctance, "that you'd gone to ground here, I'd have come here much sooner."

Andrew considers what that might have been like. If Neil had shown up in the first six months of his time here when his arms soaked their bandages every few hours and his mind thrashed within vicious coils of jagged cable. Someone would probably have died, and it might even have been himself. Even without Neil's presence, he nearly managed it anyway. _(There is blood on his knuckles, and this time it is his.)_

He will never like his brother very much, but Aaron's intervention (dragging him, half-dead, to Bee and paying for his initial sessions) means Andrew loves him, at least a little, even when he hates him.

Bee loosened the coils, even shrunk a few, but they're still there. On his best days, Andrew is functional, a little worse than a man, whatever that means, but upright and alive, so. Other days, the scar tissue on his arm pulses, the cables surge and tear into his psyche, and he is little better than a beast. 

"Probably best that you didn't," he eventually says, gifting Neil with a razor sharp smile of his own. 

"Or maybe I wouldn't have," Neil continues, ignoring him, "considering the fact that you were pretty clear about your opinion. On how horrified you were with me being—-" He looks around. 

Within earshot, people are beginning to stare. It's not more than a handful of people, but it's enough. 

Neil scowls, ferociously. He produces two crisp twenties out of his pocket, plasters them precisely onto the sticky stain, and leaves.

Andrew will never admit this, but he watches him go. Neil walks with quiet lethality, cutting through the hostile crowd with ease. This is how Neil is on court, he knows, maneuvering past the opposing strikers, whirling past the backliners, and scoring before the goalie can react.

Andrew watches until the darkness outside of the doors swallow Neil. Then he picks up the remainder of Neil's untouched shot and downs it. 

It tastes like shit. 

Later, when Andrew is gulping vodka, the unpleasant bite of licorice and cinnamon overpowers everything else. 


	2. mm, delicious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Andrew," Bee had said gently, looking at his face instead. "It might not be the decision you are used to making, but what you are doing is still a choice."_
> 
> hmmm yes. in which the lads meet again at the bar. this time, will neil drink? anyone want to bet?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow! i suppose this is going to be an actual story then. do not fear, now that I've committed, this work will be finished in a timely manner.

Andrew wakes in the early evening to a buzzing phone. He ignores it, but it keeps going. Eventually, it stops. 

He rolls over. Good.

It buzzes again. 

Swearing sleepily, he fumbles for the stupid thing until his hand finally catches it, half shoved under the other pillow. It's Wymack. Apparently, Seth is sick. He's to take his shift tonight. 

_No,_ he types. 

_Yes,_ is the response. Then, when it's apparent nothing is forthcoming from his end, _You can have a bottle of Grey._

 _Two,_ Andrew texts. 

_Fine. Be here in twenty._

Fine. Andrew mutters darkly as he stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom.

He hadn't changed when he'd gotten home last night, had passed out before getting around to contemplating it. The shitty vodka was still on his nightstand. He smelled like it, that, and all the liquor he'd handled at the bar. There wasn't time to shower. He'd have to show up to the bar reeking of alcohol and—oh no—fit right in. 

The thought makes him snicker as he splashes water on his face and neck.

Turning off the icy flow, he watches as water streams down his hands onto the unnatural crags and furrows along his forearms. In the unforgiving light of the bathroom, the raised tissue gleams. 

When he first arrived in Seattle, he hadn't had to worry about his arms. The bandages made the decision for him. It had been nice not having to make a choice.

"I'm tired of choosing," he'd told Bee on his fourth visit. "This is better, don't you think?" He gestured to his arms sardonically. It had been a particularly bad night. In the aftermath, his arms ached pleasantly. The pain kept him here, on the soft couch with too many bee pillows and not, and not—. Well. It kept him here. 

"Andrew," Bee had said gently, looking at his face instead. "It might not be the decision you are used to making, but what you are doing is still a choice." 

Now, he lifts his arms, examining them cursorily even though he knows what he'll find. He'd made a different choice. In the last year and a half, the topography of his skin has remained the same. 

When he leaves his arms exposed at work, people tend to leave him alone. The sight is horrible enough that everyone stares at first, which is fucking awful, but then the discomfort sets in. No one comes back for a second drink. It would be nice to be left alone tonight to nurse his hangover in as much peace as a bar can provide. 

Andrew grabs his keys from his nightstand, knuckles grazing the handle of vodka on his nightstand. It promptly tips over. He steadies it, frowning. It's only a quarter full, much lighter than it should be. 

"Ah," he says. The smile. The taste of liquorice on his tongue. Trying to drown it all with the vodka. Neil. Right. 

Andrew looks down at his shirt. "Well, this won't do." He digs a long sleeve out of the back of his dresser, pulls it on, and stumbles out the door. 

—

There's not as many orders for cocktails compared to yesterday, which, now that they're gone, Andrew kind of misses. Pulling beer is boring. So is whiskey, rocks or no rocks. 

The lack of mixed drink orders is disappointing but unsurprising. Nights at the Foxhole after a match of any kind is usually quiet. There's barely a third of the amount of people here yesterday, even though it's peak hours. It's almost good, except the TV overhead is replaying the highlights of the game from yesterday, and now there's not enough noise to drown it out. 

Andrew is scowling and wiping down the counter for the third time when Neil pushes the door open. The terribly infuriating smile is back. He goes for Andrew directly, ignoring Renee, who is on her phone, and thus clearly free. 

"I'm busy," Andrew says, scowling harder. _Why are you here,_ he wants to demand. Also, _fuck you._ It must show on his face because Neil abruptly looks absolutely delighted. 

"I'll wait. I'll have the same shot when you're done." 

"You didn't drink it yesterday." 

"I'll drink it tonight," Neil says cheerfully. 

Andrew eyes him. "No, you won't." 

"No, I won't," Neil agrees implacably. He leans on the bar. His upper arms look golden in the dim lights. "But make it anyway." 

Almost against his will, Andrew's gaze flicks to the exposed expanse of skin, takes in the muscles subtly working. When he looks up, Neil meets his eyes. Deliberately, he peruses Andrew's arms, hidden under long sleeves. 

_Aw,_ Neil mouths silently. His lips turn downwards, but his eyes hold nothing but mirth. _So sad. What a shame_ , they say. Fake joy. Fake sorrow. Andrew hates this new, unfamiliar Neil. He stares at him, seriously considering various ways to remove the maddening tilt to his lips. 

"Fuck you," he eventually says, but reaches for the still dusty bottle of absinthe anyway.

A few moments later, he slaps the murky shot down onto the bar. 

Neil smiles and curls his fingers around it. Makes no move to lift it to his lips. "Thank you," he says. 

Andrew scoffs. 

_Why are you here,_ he thinks. _Why did you come back?_

Overhead, the announcer exclaims, "Josten slips past Gunter, close shave there, shoots, and...makes it!" 

Andrew twitches. It's not quite a flinch. He turns away to shelve the rum and goes to cap the whiskey. When he's done, his eyes stray back to Neil, who's still staring openly at him. It's embarrassing how they can't seem to leave him alone. 

But then again, Andrew was never very good at ignoring Neil. 

"What, not going to praise me this time?" Neil asks, fiddling idly with his glass. 

Andrew laughs lightly. "How many congratulations do you need? I'm very impressed. You put a puck in a net." 

"A ball," Neil corrects, frowning briefly. The first slip in his composure since he strolled in. Andrew revels in it. 

"Is that the term?" Andrew says blithely. "Oh. Oops." He watches as realization sets in on Neil's face. Watches him roll his eyes. Fights the urge to drive a fist into his smug face. ( _Fights the urge to sink his teeth into his lip.)_

He can't quite parse the expression on his face. He's out of practice, he thinks absently. 

"With ten seconds on the clock, the Cardinals are up 3-2, and I just don't see how the Raiders can turn it around in time," the female commentator states breathlessly. Maybe a little too breathlessly. 

Andrew reaches for the remote and turns the volume down. A guy sitting to the side of the bar makes a noise of complaint. Andrew smiles at him pleasantly. The guy stiffens, hunching back over his beer. 

"We won with that goal, you know," Neil points out. 

"Oh really?" Andrew says innocently. He widens his eyes in mock astonishment. "Why, I hadn't noticed." 

Neil stills. His grin slips. "You still hate me." 

Andrew's smile widens. He hadn't liked Neil's demeanor ever since he prowled into the Foxhole last night, high off his stupid victory, but he hadn't realized just how much. Turns out, he loathes it. 

"Neil," he says, savoring the word. Neil, Neil, Neil. "Don't be egotistical now. I hate e _xy_. This isn't about you." Lying has never been hard for Andrew. Even a lie of this magnitude comes out smoothly. 

Neil absorbs this, brows coming together into a fierce frown. Andrew is certain that it's the first real expression he's made since he sauntered into the Foxhole last night. He examines it closely; discovers he likes it more than he should. 

They're both silent for a few minutes. 

Above, the postgame celebration is happening onscreen, judging by the muted noises. Andrew picks out the sound of rackets clacking together from amidst the cacophony. He picks up a lime and starts to slice it into thin slivers. The weight of the knife in his hand is reassuring. 

"No, you don't," Neil says eventually. He sets his glass down and leans forward. The momentary discomfort is gone. He's smiling again. (Andrew feels irritation skitter down his spine at the sight.) His limbs are loose, and his head is tilted just so. But Andrew knows Neil, _knows_ him. Neil is the picture of lazy delight, but the set of his shoulders and the wild light in his eyes betray him. 

"You love exy," Neil says. "You're just using it as an excuse." And he laughs. It's a surprisingly bright noise for the sentiment it carries. 

Andrew laughs too. "Calling me a coward?" _Again?_

Neil raises an eyebrow. "Am I wrong?" He looks like he expects to be right, like he truly believes he's right. It's infuriating. 

Andrew slices the lime in two ugly, uneven chunks. "Drink your stupid shot," he says lightly. "I'd hate for my work to go unappreciated." 

Neil scoffs, but picks up his glass anyway, touches his lips to the liquid. “Mm,” he comments. “Delicious.”

“I’m sure,” Andrew says dryly. Neil’s lips glisten. Andrew wants to draw blood. 

Neil, oblivious as always, watches Andrew over the rim of the glass. His eyebrows scrunch, the way they do when he's really concentrating. Andrew feels his chest tighten in response to the sudden appearance of the Neil he knows, replacing the stranger he's become. It puts him in a better mood. 

"You're right, I don't hate exy," Andrew offers, feeling benevolent. "It's more accurate to say I don't care about it either way." 

Neil blinks, absorbing this information. 

"Josten? Neil Josten?" The voice is rough, unfamiliar. 

Andrew looks up and watches as a man staggers up to Neil, his face ruddy and a beer clutched in one paw. Neil closes his eyes. When he opens them, his own is wiped clean of Neil. Instead, it's carefully pleasant. A public relations mask. The joyless smile is back. 

Andrew looks at the fool of a drunkard and thinks about doing various unpleasant things to him for bringing the stranger Neil back. 

"Hello," Neil says tonelessly. The very picture of grace, Andrew thinks derisively. Anything for an adoring fan. He wants to see him frown again. This Neil is no better than a doll. 

"Great shot inth' goal, last nigh'," the man slurs, reaching a clumsy hand out, clearly intending to pound Neil on the back.

Neil stiffens but keeps the smile on his face. He doesn't make any move to avoid the incoming contact. He's picked up a trick or two from Andrew since he last saw him, it seems, and Andrew doesn't like how it tastes. Bitter, he thinks, like licorice. 

"Let's keep our hands to ourselves now, hm?" Andrew drawls softly, grinning widely. He places the mostly full bottle of Everclear he's yet to put away on the bar with a loud thump. Raises the knife he's still holding, examines it like he's never seen it before. 

The man gapes for a moment, processing. "Wha?" He finally says. Spit flies from his mouth. "'M not doing anythin', just want'a c-c-congratulate," it takes him a few tries to get the word out. When he does, he beams as if he'd just accomplished an impressive feat. Then, the fool reaches his hand out again because he's clearly tired of possessing two. 

Neil is still smiling, but his eyes are distant. It's too familiar. Andrew stiffens. Inside his head, the coils tighten just a touch. His temples ache. 

"Fucking idiot," Andrew mutters loudly. He drives the knife into the wooden countertop, still within reach, and grips the neck of the bottle with both hands. 

"I wouldn't, if I were you," Neil says abruptly. 

Andrew glances at him, but Neil's not looking at him. He's staring at the drunk with something like amusement in his eyes. The horrible deadness is gone. Good, Andrew thinks, satisfied. Probably too much for someone who doesn't care about Neil Josten. 

The fool wobbles as he looks back across the counter, finally taking in the way Andrew is standing deceptively still. 

"Woah, man, I din' mean nothin'," he blurts, raising his hands up in the air like it's a stick-up. Cops and robbers. 

Andrew doesn't say anything in response. He just hefts the bottle and smiles. Everclear is better than a baton. It's heavier. If it breaks, it only gets _better_. 

"How about you head out for tonight, sir? We will gladly welcome you here at the Foxhole another evening," someone says placidly from Andrew's side behind the bar. Renee. Her hand lands on his shoulder, featherlight. Delicately enough that he could shift her off with a twitch yet enough to delay him for a moment should he hop the counter. Renee understands him in a way that even Bee has not (and probably cannot). 

The drunk hesitates but doesn't linger. Without looking, Andrew knows Renee is smiling. Grumbling, the drunk shuffles out slowly. 

Neil watches him vigilantly until the door shuts behind him. Then he turns, grinning. (A real smile, Andrew notes automatically.) "That was—oh." For one fleeting instant, unfiltered shock dominates his face. 

Andrew tilts his head, impassively watching him take in Renee's stance. She's perceptive enough to remove her hand almost immediately, but it's still not enough. 

"It's much too late for that, Renee, dear," Andrew chides. 

"Ah, is that so? My apologies, Andrew. I didn't mean to offend." Renee blinks apologetically at him. 

"Oh no, not me. You know I don't mind." Andrew says softly. He watches Neil's face shutter and feels a flicker of regret, quickly overshadowed by irritation. Neil knows him well enough to make assumptions. Neil, it turns out, doesn't know him well enough to be right. How unfortunate. 

"I'm getting more from the back," Andrew announces blandly, handing Renee the (still) mostly full bottle of Everclear before disappearing into the storeroom. 

—

When he emerges empty-handed half an hour later, having played three rounds of gomoku on his phone and lost them all, Neil is gone. Andrew does not have an opinion about it. What he does have, is at the shot on the counter, as full as when he'd poured it. He lifts it. 

"Do we still have Everclear?" Renee asks from her half of the bar. Her voice is warm. Amused.

"Never fear, Renee dear," Andrew says. "We do. It is simply not yet time to bring them forth."

"I see. Have you been drinking?"

"Not yet," Andrew tsks, shaking his head. "You think so lowly of me. A promise is a promise, even if it is to Wymack. I said after hours only, so after hours it is. But for that unpleasant reminder, I'm liberating the good whiskey." 

Renee laughs but doesn't comment. 

"This, though," Andrew said. "Doesn't count. Extra special reward if I have to deal with Josten again. After everything." He downs the nasty shot before Renee can disagree. 

It's still shit. _Shit that Neil’s lips touched_ , some part of him offers. _Shut up_ , Andrew tells that part of himself, smothering it. 

Andrew doesn't go home empty-handed. He takes the promised Grey Gooses. Geese? And the Everclear too. As a memento. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come find me outside of AO3 i am so very lonely :O
> 
> also, i write better with encouragement! your thoughts are the essence of life (at least for this poor writer) please tell me what you think of the characterization!! I've got the plot down, but i worry about the execution D:


	3. citrus senensis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew has a disagreeable shift, and more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter of this fic was written for the AFTG Mixtape Exchange, based around the song Downhill by Lincoln.
> 
> Two chapters and many words later, I feel that it has become its own work. Hence, I've taken the songfic tag away, as the later chapters are not in any way inspired by the song. I've also changed the work name to one that reflects the fic in its entirety!

_"There was a man in a suit at practice," Neil says. "Coach didn't say anything, but I think he might be a scout." He's lying flat on his back, every inch of visible skin gleaming with sweat. It's a very appealing image._

_If Andrew weren't already spent, he'd do something about it. "Hm," he breathes instead, loose-limbed and growing drowsier every minute. He's never sure if he'll be able to fall asleep here, in Neil's bed, and then he does. It's still a surprise every time._

_For as long as Andrew can remember, he's never been able to tolerate being unconscious in the presence of anyone. And then last month, Andrew closed his eyes for a moment and opened them again to sunlight and gentle breathing behind him, and the dread never came._

_In some ways, it's the same as before; years later, Andrew lays beside another warm body. But it's different where it matters._

_The body belongs to Neil, who sleeps with his limbs tucked close against the wall. Neil, who never moves until he wakes, who curls inwards rather than reaching out with possessive hands._

_They never really talk about it. Andrew brings an extra set of clothes when he comes over sometimes. Neil sticks a new toothbrush in his cup._

_Tonight is an extra clothes night. Andrew is close to oblivion already, but Neil is still talking._

_"—and he kept looking at me," he says. "I think he's going to come to the game tomorrow too. If I do well, maybe..."_

_Neil is the biggest coward Andrew knows. There's always something of the rabbit in him, which only subsides when he holds a racket or talks strategy (or, Andrew thinks, with as much satisfaction as a cat who got the canary and the cream, when Neil is with him). When exy occupies him, what looks out through Neil's eyes is every inch an apex predator._

_It's curious, then, that he's grown floppy ears and a twitching nose now. It's worth delaying unconsciousness for. Andrew cracks an eye open to observe this interesting development. "Afraid?"_

_Neil stiffens. "Never," he says, though they both know that's not true. "It's just there's also Lewis and Jarel. Lewis is fast like me, though not as fast and Jarel—"_

_And just like that, Andrew's interest dissipates as fast as it came. He puts up with a lot, being with Neil. He's learned the advantages and disadvantages of each angle a ball can possibly be slung at a surface. He has gone to enough games that he actually recognizes every single one of the dozens of people on the Georgetown exy team_ out of uniform ___. It's a terrible waste of his memory, but he puts up with all of it because, at some point, the flighty boy beside him has become interesting enough that Andrew decided it's worth it._

_But this is too much, even for him._

_"I will listen to you talk about the idiots you call teammates any other time," Andrew says, after effectively shutting Neil up with a long kiss. "Right now, we are both naked, and if you are somehow more interested in them, I am going to leave and never come back."_

_When he pulls back, Neil looks at first stunned, then pleased. His lips are a little swollen and a deep, lovely red. Andrew wants to leave marks the same shade all over him, so those cretins have to see them when Neil descends into the den of filth that is the locker room._

_"I could never," Neil says surely, all trace of the uncertainty gone from his voice, "be more interested in anyone else. Ever." He tugs at Andrew, who lets himself be pulled back down._

_He enjoys it far more than sleep, although that comes too. Later. Much later._

—

Andrew stirs when the sunlight is too bright behind his eyelids to ignore. He feels the steady weight of someone else lying still behind him. "Neil," he says, half-awake, "don't you have class?"

Silence. 

He frowns. 

Neil is not a heavy sleeper. Neither of them is. When one wakes, the other inevitably comes to moments later. 

Andrew turns, an insult ready on his lips, and comes face to face with two bottles of Grey Goose and the Everclear but nothing else. 

It takes him another minute to understand. When he does, he sits up and reaches for one of them. Knowing his internal clock, it's somewhere between three and five. In any case, enough time before work. If he starts now, he won't show up drunk. 

—

_"Why is your apartment so empty. It looks like a dorm," Aaron demands when he drops by unannounced two months into Andrew's abrupt relocation to Seattle._

_He stomps into the bedroom and snorts. It's empty except for the tiny twin bed the previous occupant had left behind, the walls are bare, and the blinds are bent. "Nevermind. I'm pretty sure college students live better than this," he says, disgusted. "At least they have a desk."_

_"I still am a college student," Andrew points out placidly._

_Aaron's eyes flash. " I will never understand why you moved across the country halfway through the semester to attend a community college," he snaps. "Why couldn't you have applied to a decent institution and transferred next semester? Georgetown's not going to take you back, you know."_

_"Farewell," Andrew says brightly, herding him to the front door. "Please call if you're going to come by next time."_

_"You never pick up," Aaron grumbles, but he doesn't look as bothered by the idea as he could be._

_"Good," Andrew says. "I'm glad you understand." He shuts the door before Aaron can respond._

—

With a year's worth of trial and error behind him, Andrew times it perfectly. He spends the rest of the afternoon in a pleasant haze, but comes back to himself by the time he has to get ready. 

As he drives, he grips the wheel until it creaks, resisting the urge to pluck at the fabric covering his arms. 

The discomfort isn't even worth it in the end.

Neil does not show up. 

Worse, Seth is the other bartender. 

Right away, Andrew can tell it'll be a shit shift. When he arrives, Seth, freshly recovered and still slightly pale, has the audacity to take one look at his arms and say, "Considerate of you to finally cover up. Bit late though." As if Andrew had done it out of consideration for anyone other than his—than Neil.

Andrew wants to carve the smug little look off his shitty face. 

"I see you want to celebrate your return to health by mixing drinks with broken fingers, Gordon," he replies evenly. He makes a big show of glancing at the clock hanging on the wall opposite the bar. "Why, it's only eight! A bit _early_ for that, don't you think?" 

Seth draws himself up, sneering. 

"Andrew," a voice interjects from further within the bar. 

"Come on, Wymack, you heard him. He asked for it," Andrew says lightly as he lines up a truly unnecessary amount of knives along the counter. 

"Maim Gordon off of my premises when I'm not paying you, please," is the distant response. 

"Right then. I'll see you in the parking lot after work," Andrew remarks brightly, thumbing the tip of the sharpest blade and eyeing Seth, who spits out, "Fucking psychopath," as he storms past him. His bravado is rather ruined by the obvious care he takes not to touch Andrew in the process.

"Hm," Andrew hums, amused. For that unconscious gesture of respect, he would let Seth go home without interfering. "Look at my restraint. Despite being horribly insulted, I've graciously permitted Seth to keep all of his fingers. See how agreeable I am?" 

There is no audible response, not even the sound of the office door closing. 

"Worried Seth and I'll come to blows?" Andrew takes a step towards the hallway. "Don't worry," he says, almost conspiratorially. "I'll end it fast. I'll even do his work for him after. Isn't that a good deal?" 

When there is no reply again, Andrew lets his inane smile drop for a moment. The silence is telling; Wymack must be actually worried, likely enough to keep his door open all night. The thought rankles. He flips the knife in his hand, once, twice. Closes his hand around the handle too tightly. 

Idly, he wonders how Wymack will react when Neil shows up. The great Neil Josten, star striker of the D.C Cardinals. Wymack would probably ask for his signature. He pictures Neil's expression and snickers, setting the knife aside and taking assorted fruits and other garnishes out of the fridge to prep. 

Seth emerges from the backroom with two armfuls of ice, glowering. Andrew rearranges his knives idly as Seth staggers by, muttering things that he magnanimously ignores. 

They manage to get ready without a major incident. The Foxhole gradually fills with increasingly drunken bodies. 

Andrew makes drink after drink, but the orders still pile up. He pauses to roll up his sleeves, but even that doesn't prevent people from coming back for seconds tonight. It's infuriating. 

Two hours in, he's made enough to serve the whole bar a round on his own ( _what the fuck is Seth doing?_ ), and Neil is still not here. It's not like he wants him here, obviously. Neil showing up would probably actually ruin his shift for good. But still. Andrew likes routine, and this deviation is—unpleasant. That's all. 

The next time someone approaches him, Andrew sets a bottle down with a heavy thunk. "No," he says. 

"Hey man, I just want to order a drink," the man says. 

"I'm busy," Andrew says. He picks up a knife and picks at an invisible speck under his thumbnail. 

"Look," the man says persistently, "I just want a beer." 

"Go find the other bartender," Andrew says. 

The blibbering idiot has the audacity to look confused. "What do you mean? It's just you." 

"What," Andrew says dangerously. He turns. Indeed, there is a distinct lack of Seth Gordon behind the counter. "Ah. How unfortunate," he notes.

"See? Now, can I get a beer?"

"You can wait while I go retrieve the stupid motherfucker," Andrew says pleasantly. 

"What?" 

But Andrew is gone, stalking down the hallway. He checks the stock room to no avail. A cold draft swirls in from the gap between the back door and the wall, kissing his bare arms. Ah. 

Excitement swirls in his gut. His fingers itch with anticipation. 

Andrew kicks the door wide open with one booted foot. Seth drops his half-smoked cigarette and leaps about a foot in the air, cursing foully. "What the hell, asshole," he swears. 

"What a funny coincidence! That's what I wanted to ask you," Andrew says, his lips stretching wide. "Why am I the only one behind the bar?" 

Seth sneers and takes out another cigarette. "I'm on break," he says derisively, taking his eyes off Andrew to light it. 

Seth Gordon has always been a cocky bastard. While generally annoying, it is awfully convenient for times like this. 

Approximately two seconds later, Andrew has him against the rough brick of the alley with one hand to his throat. Too late, Seth's hands come up, scrabbling ineffectively. 

"Now, now," Andrew murmurs, pressing the little peeler knife he'd palmed against his abdomen, hard enough to draw blood. Seth stills, but his pulse flutters rapidly against Andrew's thumb, who notes it with great satisfaction. "When we take breaks, we tell the other bartender, right? And we don't take more than fifteen minutes, yes?" 

Seth breathes heavily but doesn't respond. His eyes have a wild look in them. That's fine. A quiet Seth is preferable. Easier to manage. 

"You, Gordon, have been here, enjoying yourself, for forty minutes," Andrew notes. "Seems a little rude, don't you think? In the future, you will ask me before you think about taking a break, won't you," he says. It's not a question. 

"Fine, fine," Seth gasps. " _Fuck._ "

Andrew holds him there for another moment. Then he lets him go, shoving him into the side of the metal dumpster. "Oops," he says merrily. 

Seth just wheezes, clutching his throat. 

"I didn't grab you that hard," Andrew says dismissively, leaning against the wall casually. "Stop the dramatics. You're not even going to bruise." Despite his relaxed stance, he observes Seth carefully. 

Seth heaves, then stumbles up the steps silently, hovering in the doorway. 

Andrew raises an eyebrow. "Well? What are you waiting for?" 

Seth's hands curl into fists at his sides. His jaw works angrily. "Aren't you coming," he spits eventually. 

Andrew stares. Then he laughs. "What? No," he says. "I am taking my break," he says. "I'll see you in fifteen minutes. Kindly fuck off now, hm?" 

Seth mutters a curse. "Fine," he says darkly. He stomps back down the hallway. 

Andrew watches his receding back until he turns the corner. Then, he pulls out a cigarette. 

—

When Andrew ambles down the hallway exactly fourteen minutes, thirty seconds, and two cigarettes later, he doesn't slow before the open door. It makes no difference.

"Andrew."

Andrew halts. Sighs. Turns. 

"Wymack." 

The man in question is seated behind his desk in an already tiny office, made even smaller by the vast quantities of exy paraphernalia pasted to the walls and shoved in the corners. 

He's currently bent over a sheaf of papers, scribbling furiously. "Sorry," he says. "One moment." 

Andrew takes the opportunity to assess him. Wymack looks oddly stiff and his dark circles look more like bruises. "Slept on the couch again," he comments.

"Mm," Wymack grunts. He yawns as he looks up, dull-eyed. His gaze settles on Andrew. Almost immediately, he looks more alert. "Why are you coming back from a break with a knife," he says, straightening. 

Andrew looked down at his hand in genuine surprise. "Hm," he says. It felt right, holding it, like it was an extension of himself. So much so that he'd forgotten to hide it from Wymack's discerning eyes. 

"Well?" Wymack prompts. 

Andrew shrugs. "Self-protection. Back alleys are dangerous places, you know," he points out charitably. 

"Right," Wymack says skeptically. "So it has nothing to do with why Seth came stomping through the hallway?" 

Andrew gasps theatrically. "Why would I ever need to protect myself from Gordon? If anything, he should be worried about _me._ "

Wymack grunts. "That's what I'm worried about," he says. 

Andrew laughs. "If that's all, I should get back to work now. I have to set an example for certain others," he says conspiratorially, lowering his voice even though the din of the bar is enough to drown him out. 

Wymack looks like he wants to say more, but Andrew is already moving away, down the hall. 

—

When he emerges from the hallway, the first thing Andrew registers is a shock of auburn hair by the bar. Neil, he thinks. Neil is here. His stomach twists (he tries to tell himself it is disgust). Neil is sitting at the bar. 

For as long as Andrew can remember, his eyes have always been drawn inexorably to that particular shade of copper without a good reason. It's why he used to like fall, with all of the crunchy leaves in various glorious tones of amber and red. The first time he saw Neil, it had felt like a punch to the gut. How weird, he'd thought, to see his color on a person. 

Andrew walks closer and closer. Neil doesn't look up, doesn't even react when he steps behind the bar. He's sitting on Seth's side, even.

Andrew doesn't say anything, just takes orders and makes enough drinks until there's finally a lull half an hour later. Until he can finally approach the idiot. 

When he sets a Hell's Fury in front of him, bleary green eyes look up at him. 

Andrew freezes, his eyes sweeping over the unfamiliar face in front of him. This man's hair is duller than Neil's, he realizes. The lighting had played tricks on his eyesight. 

"What's this," the man slurs, picking up the shot sloppily. Some of it goes sloshing down the side, onto his hand. He doesn't even seem to notice. 

"It's on the house," Andrew says, disgusted. At the drunk. At himself. "Enjoy your night." 

After that, Andrew stops thinking about Neil. He doesn't even look up, just shoves drinks into strange hands as fast as he can make them. Still, he doesn't roll his sleeves up.

 _Stupid_ , he thinks as he peels an orange for a garnish, but he doesn't stop. 

Friday nights are terrible shifts for people who hate exy. There's always a game playing somewhere, which means it's on the TVs. "Tonight," a voice announces, "the Cardinals play the Ospreys on their home turf. The Cardinals are coming off of a close win against the Raiders, all thanks to a brilliant goal made by their brilliant striker, Neil Josten..."

Ah.

Some tiny part of Andrew loosens as the words filter through the haze of the bar. He feels better (So Neil isn't here because he's doing his job). He feels worse (So Neil isn't here and didn't say anything before leaving). 

Then he feels a rush of rage. Why does he even care? Andrew jams the finished peel onto the rim of a glass and shoves it a waiting pair of hands, not checking to see if it's the right set. He picks up the remains of the orange and sets about skinning the rest of the peel viciously. It's none of his business where Neil is or what he's doing. It doesn't matter, anyway. It's not important. He shouldn't care. 

I don't care, Andrew thinks, moving his knife along the skin, producing yet another curl. For a moment, it even seems like it might be true. Then the announcer coyly declares Neil Josten to be "the most impressive striker of this season, maybe even of his generation," and Andrew slices through the peel too early. 

It's a Friday and nearly everyone is here for the exy broadcast, which means Andrew cannot put his fist through the vehicle of said broadcast. Instead, he curls his hand around the little peeling knife. Grimly, he starts over. 

The problem isn't that Andrew doesn't care, as the doctors declared. The problem has always been that he cares too much, especially for those tied to him in some way; blood, heart, soul. 

As Andrew stands underneath the TV, disappointment, longing, and everpresent fury coalesce into a discordant maelstrom inside him. It rampages through his system, tearing through his thoughts. He feels something come loose inside of him. It feels important. Andrew keeps peeling only through muscle memory, turning the orange, turning, turning, turning. 

"Are you bleeding?" Someone says. Andrew can't tell who. It might be a patron or even Seth. He's not exactly sure which direction it came from, which, he admits later to Bee, was extremely problematic. 

"Andrew," someone says, closer. Behind. 

( _Breathing down his neck. "Andrew.")_

Andrew whirls around, breathing sharply. "No, no," he croons. "Don't try that with me again." 

The man sighs. Takes a step back. "Minyard," he says quietly. 

Andrew blinks, chest still rising rapidly. "That's not right," he says.

"That's a pretty nasty gash. Can you come with me to the first aid kit or do you need me to bring it to you?"

Andrew looks down. He's still clutching the knife, which shines with orange juice and a darker liquid. As he watches, a drop slips off and lands on his shoe. "Huh." He looks at his other hand. A large gash along his thumb is bleeding furiously. 

"Oh dear," Andrew says, half turning to pick up the orange. The skin is mostly gone, revealing the formerly cream-toned pith. "What a lovely blood orange." He studies it for a moment. "I'll get it myself," he says to it casually. 

He takes it with him. Wymack does not protest. 

Wymack's door is wide open and the hallway is empty, but Andrew still takes the gauze to the alley. When he reenters the bar, Wymack calls to him from his office immediately. 

"And—Minyard," he corrects. "Can you come here, please." 

Andrew does not please. But to get down the hallway, he has to pass the office. He could leave through the alley instead, but he's pretty sure that that means he won't have a job to come back to. Usually, he likes his job. The alcohol is nice, even if the company is mixed. The thought of his empty apartment, sans bottles of any sort, tips the decision. 

"What do you need, David," Andrew drawls. He stops at the doorway, leans insouciantly along one side. 

Wymack, to Andrew's displeasure, does not so much as twitch at this new address. "Go home," he says, unperturbed. 

"I do want my pay," Andrew says. "I'm all wrapped up and ready to go." He raises his hand, the bandage surprisingly neat.

Wymack glances at it briefly, seems to deem it acceptable, before looking at Andrew's face again. "Good," he says. "I know you drove to work. Are you fine to drive back?" 

Andrew scoffs. "Did you not hear me," he says. "I'm not going to my car until the end of my shift." 

"Sick pay," Wymack says. 

"I am not sick," Andrew says woodenly. "I'll make Seth do all the garnishes." 

Wymack sighs, looking down at his desk. "Please go home," he says, missing the way Andrew full-body flinches at his words. 

When Andrew is certain he can speak without giving anything away, he bites out a simple, "No." 

Wymack snaps his head up, looking, for the first time, a little harrowed. "Why the hell not?" He says. "I'm literally offering to pay you for the rest of your shift. Why do you want to stay?"

Because I won't be told what to do. Because I won't be cajoled into anything. (Because my past two shifts were filled with Neil and I don't want to leave before I see him, even though I know he's not coming.) 

"I don't like being told what to do," is all Andrew says, smiling. He glances at the back of the lone picture frame on the desk. "Coach." It's designed to wound, to scrape far enough that he'll be left alone or yelled at. Andrew can handle anger. He prefers being ignored. Pleading, however, is just disgusting. 

Wymack tenses. Andrew, his head carefully turned towards the hallway, stills, ready. But the older man doesn't lash out, nor does he wave him away. It's...bizarre. 

"I would prefer if you headed home now," he says, after a moment. He's frowning, but his body language reads less _dangerous_ than before. "I understand if you would prefer to finish your shift. I'm sorry for trying to make you act like I wanted. You're a good bartender, and I‘d like if you stay healthy. You can do as you like, Andrew." He looks up. 

Andrew meets his eyes. 

Whatever Wymack observes makes his widen infinitesimally, small enough to go unseen, but Andrew is an expert at noticing. He wonders if Wymack will comment, but in the end, he doesn't. "I'll be in here if you need anything," he says instead. "Good night." 

—

I must have given something away, Andrew muses as he climbs into his car. For a long moment, he sits quietly, shaking with unused adrenaline, until his heads are steady enough to put the keys into the ignition. 

Wymack, Andrew concludes, keeps his ugliness buried deep. Is abnormally good at it. Well, then again, so is he. Usually.

Pulling into his parking spot, he reaches over to the passenger seat surely, in a well-practiced motion. When his hand closes around nothing, he frowns. 

“Ah,” he says. Right. 

After the weirdness with Wymack, he’d walked out to the bar, gotten halfway to his station behind the counter when the coppery shade on Seth’s side caught his eye again. 

His brain knew it wasn’t Neil. But some wild, craven part hoped so wildly that it was, needed it to be him with such a vicious ache that bile surged up Andrew’s throat and water sprang into his eyes. 

If it had been anyone else tending the bar, he might have fought the nausea and stayed. The medication he used to be on had produced similar effects after all, even if that had been years ago. But it was Seth, so Andrew just waved as he left, ignoring Seth's demands to know 'where the fuck he thought he was going'. 

This is all to say that he hadn't taken his usual bottle of alcohol. Not that he was exactly entitled to it, not when he'd finished less than half of his scheduled shift. 

“Darn,” Andrew remarks cheerfully, clutching his keys tightly. He unlocks his door and shoving it open. “Whatever shall I do now?” 

As if to answer, his hand throbs slowly, fresh red staining the bandage. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay,,, i've had large parts of this written for such a long time but i wasn't really satisfied with it in its entirety. i hope you liked it. 
> 
> i've hammered out the rest of the plot, so the next update shouldn't take as long. i aim to have it out by the 25th!
> 
> (also...i swear things will be okay in the end, and that there will be many moments that aren't bleak coming up. this isn't going to a fic that makes you feel lots of pain and doesn't provide any balm in any form. also there will be no self harm in the present time. spoiler, i know, but i wanted/needed to make sure you knew!)


	4. try chasing it down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew picks up new habits while inexorably, the past comes back, again and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!! thank you so much for 1000 hits in my prolonged absence. please enjoy this beastie :)

"Andrew," Bee says, smiling, "is this where you want to be?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Why, of course. If I didn't, I wouldn't be here."

Bee's smile doesn't move an inch, but she glances down for a moment. When she looks up again, her eyes are serene. 

Andrew tilts his head. "Why does it make you sad? Here I am. You should take pride in your work." 

He watches as the corners of her eyes crease. "Yes, you are. And I'm very happy with the progress you've made since our first meeting. Thank you for working with me so patiently." 

"I think I should be thanking you," Andrew says. 

"As you said, this is my profession. I am here to help you. You don't have to thank me," Bee says, smiling gently so he knows it isn't a rebuke. She glances down at her notes. "Hm, allow me to rephrase my previous question. Do you want to be in Seattle?"

"Well, I moved here, didn't I?"

Bee waits patiently. 

Andrew, no stranger to this game, considers joining her in silence. They've spent entire sessions like that, but the idea isn't as tempting as it used to be. He considers it anyway, resting his chin on his palm. Immediately, pain lances down his arm. He stills. Calmly, he switches his hand for the unbandaged one. 

Bee sees it, but she doesn't ask. Just for that, Andrew answers her. 

"I came because my family's here."

"Is it?"

Yes. _No._

" _I've been on my own for years, you know, but now I'm not. You're not, either."_

_"Okay."_

_"I mean it, Andrew."_

_"...okay."_

It feels as if a nest of vipers has taken residence in his brain. They writhe and wiggle, their smooth coils constricting his brain. He stares sightlessly at the smooth mahogany desk his visibly concerned therapist sits behind. Silly, that, how two little words unleashed such a horde when it'll take so much more than that to mollify them. 

Andrew curls his hand, another burst of pain arcing down his wrist. It cuts through the haze momentarily. "Not today, Bee," he manages to say calmly.

They spend the next fifty minutes in silence. Andrew flexes his hand until it throbs. He keeps the bloody side tilted away from Bee, but she seems to know, anyway, because she silently proffers a bandaid when he stands to go. 

He doesn't look at her when he takes it. 

When he strips the bloody gauze off in the driver's seat, he realizes that the intended replacement is too small to cover the cut. 

—

_Andrew feels the tension drain from his shoulders as he knocks on the door. His body knows what's coming._

_When the door swings open, Neil looks startled. Fearful, possibly. Andrew flicks his eyes up and down his frame and feels his muscles go taut. He shifts his weight backward._

_"Hey. Fuck. I forgot about tonight. Sorry," Neil says. He rubs his eyes frustratedly. "I have a project due tomorrow and I misread the requirements. I can't today."_

" _Okay," Andrew agrees. He relaxes an inch. "Text me."_

_Neil smiles wanly. "Thanks. Later then," he says, leaning forward to catch the door handle. Andrew frowns. Neil's skin has taken on an unhealthy grayish tinge that has nothing to do with lighting._

_"Have you eaten?"_

_"Dinner? Not yet."_

_Mutely, Andrew holds his phone's screen up for Neil. The time reads 11:43._

_Neil sighs. "Shit. Well, I think I have some granola bars somewhere." He makes no move to find them._

_Andrew rolls his eyes. He gets them both into the room and brings the door shut behind him._

_"What're you—" Neil says, as Andrew goes through all of his desk drawers in rapid succession. He turns around, holding two Clifbar boxes._

_"These are the worst kind," he informs him._

_"They were on sale," Neil says._

_Andrew flings them into the trash. "Work," he says, "I'll order something."_

_Neil plucks them back out before settling back into his chair. "They're fine," he says, ripping one open and biting in._

_Andrew orders steamed vegetables and sauteed chicken from the decent Chinese place a block off campus that keeps conveniently late hours._

_Two minutes later, Neil's stomach makes a strangled sound. It's utterly pathetic._

_Andrew picks up the half-eaten bar and drops it back in the trash._

_"No," he says. When Neil looks like he'll dig the bars out of the trash again, he sighs. "I ordered Jade Pavilion."_

_Neil, who'd been scowling ferociously, beams. "Really?"_

_"Yes."_

_"You're amazing."_

_"I know."_

_Andrew opens Amazon and orders four different flavors of KIND bars, overnight shipping._

_Forty minutes later, Neil says around a mouthful of chicken and rice, "Aren't you bored? You should go back to your dorm."_

_"I'm doing my readings," Andrew says, pushing the carton of vegetables towards Neil. "It's fine."_

_"Aha," Neil says triumphantly, waving a pea pod around. "So even you get behind on work, huh?"_

_"These are all for next week."_

_"Damn."_

_Three hours later, Neil moans. "I think I'm going to have to be up all night."_

_"Okay," Andrew says. "Do you want something to drink."_

_Neil shakes his head. "Energy drinks make me too jittery to think." He reaches for his water bottle and tilts it futilely. "Aagh," he groans. Andrew shoves his onto the desk without looking up from his textbook._

" _Thanks," Neil says gratefully, draining more than half of it in one go._

_Andrew takes Neil's and refills it downstairs._

_Neither of them sleeps._

_Neil rushes off to his class at eight fifty, bedraggled but successful. Andrew heads back to his dorm and promptly passes out._

_He wakes up to a rapid series of texts from Neil._

_"were these from you"_

_"[picture of four violently ripped open boxes, the granola bars spilling out haphazardly]"_

_"they're really good"_

_"thanks"_

_Idiot, Andrew thinks fondly. Then, oh._

_Then,_ shit. 

_—_

Andrew is self-aware enough to acknowledge that he is somewhat of a high-functioning alcoholic. Not entirely, because on nights like this, when the apartment is dry, he isn't utterly adrift. There's that essay due soon and the missed lecture—thanks to Seth—to review. His earlier session with Bee made him want to drive out and buy some liquor instead, but Andrew turns his computer on and reaches for his water bottle. 

He spends the next two shift-free, liquor-free, days in a sort of numb state, catching up on homework and going to class. 

"Make sure you're keeping up with current news," his professor calls as everyone files out of the room. "We'll be discussing it first thing next time."

Dutifully, Andrew goes to Google. 

_current news,_ he enters. 

CNN offers up an article explaining What's New in the Chicken Sandwich Wars under the business section. 

World leaders are meeting for a summit.

The sports section's header is so small Andrew follows the last politics piece right onto the first piece without noticing the shift. This lasts for about five seconds because the headline is D.C Cardinals Could Make it to Playoffs Thanks to Promising Striker. 

Andrew closes his browser. Almost immediately, he opens it again and types rapidly, not looking at his fingers or his computer screen until he presses enter, like that'll change anything. Like he can hide anything from himself. 

_niel josren_

_ did you mean neil josten? _

The first result is a Twitter account. 

@NeilJostenOfficial is full of tweets that use up all the characters but don't say anything, things like, "Join us as we take on the San Francisco Selkies this Saturday!" or "Thank you for a great game tonight, Raiders!" 

As he scrolls idly down, he wonders who actually creates this stream of endlessly cheery content. Neil probably has a team behind him now, meeting his every need before he can even think of them. (" _I've been on my own for years, you know, but now I'm not. You're not, either.")_

You were wrong, Andrew thinks now. It doesn't feel as satisfying as he thought it would. 

He scrolls for a few more seconds, up and down, fingers flicking aimlessly. This page is boring. Every tweet the same as the next. There is nothing of Neil here. 

He's about to navigate away when his eyes land on a tweet dated five days ago, the fourteenth. The tweet itself is nothing special, it contains the same drivel as all of them ("Thanks for having us Seattle! @SeattleRaiders played a great game tonight!). What catches his interest is the image attached just below it. It's Neil, halfway down the court, his arms outstretched to catch the ball flying at him. He is all grace and speed. Even obscured by his helmet, Andrew can tell his eyes are alight. 

—

_"Come to my game?"_

_Andrew doesn't look up from his textbook. He's started bringing more than just a change of clothes over, ever since the all-nighter._

" _Please?"_

_Pointedly, he writes out a few more words. Two plus two equals four._

_"You'll regret it when you have to buy tickets to see me in the NEL."_

_"You'll get tickets for me," Andrew says placidly._

_Neil raises an eyebrow. "So you were listening."_

_"Not this game," Andrew says finally, setting down his pen. "When is your next."_

_"In two weeks," Neil says promptly. "On Thursday. It's not a home game though."_

_"Okay," Andrew says._

_"Is that a yes?"_

_"Hm."_

_"If you don't come, I'll be distraught," Neil says seriously, but his eyes are warm._

_Andrew levels him with a flat stare. "Don't push it."_

_Neil laughs, "You shouldn't use that look on me then. You know it gets me—mmph," he says, as Andrew pushes his books aside and settles onto him._

_"I'll text you the info," Neil says breathlessly, later._

_Andrew scowls._

_It's worth it, he realizes precisely two weeks later, watching up in the stands as Neil slams into someone hard enough to throw them both off their feet. He'd never admit it, of course, but it is._

_Neil is a different creature on the field. He's vicious in a way that he never is around Andrew, not anymore. This Neil is unyielding lines and spiky edges, unsoftened by fresh sheets and the slant of sunlight upon his collarbone. It is as perplexing to observe as it is thrilling. Then Andrew watches as Neil hurtles down the court, darting effortlessly between his opponents (leaving them blinking in his wake), and realizes that this Neil is not so different after all. He's as comfortable on their half of the court as his own, advances and advances until the buzzer sounds. Andrew doesn't look up to check the score. He can't take his eyes off of the boy with the number ten across his back. He wants to see him fly down the court again, teeth bared and ready._

_On the field, Neil is fearless, as lovely as he is fierce._

_It makes something inside of Andrew ache._

_Absently, he scratches his wrist._

_Andrew does not return to his dorm that night, even though he'd planned to. He doesn't sleep much either._

_He attends every game after that, to Neil's evident satisfaction, until he doesn't._

—

Andrew clicks on the picture of Neil—caught mid-stride, left foot pushing off and the right already raised—and stares at it for too long. (He's not sure how long exactly, which is precisely the problem). It's just that Neil looks like he's practically flying. He appears just as fearless as Andrew remembers. 

Neil makes it seem so easy to be unafraid. 

It's too much to look at, too much to process, but he doesn't want to exit either. Instead, he scrolls aimlessly through the comments beneath the tweet. 

He doesn't process any of them at first, not until his eyes land on— 

@madorx 

fuck you freak! your goals were bullshit 

and

@radlybane

yeah no don't come back lol 

and

@penceroyal

your face looks like something that crawled straight out of a nightmare

—and Andrew feels something other than detachment for the first time since his last session with Bee. It's interesting enough that he takes the effort and makes his first social media account. Not that it's recognizably his. 

@maxlawn1014 

___@madorx_ do you think it's bullshit because you couldn't have made them? in that case, i understand

@maxlawn1014

___@radlybone_ they probably won't, since the raiders clearly aren't on the same level

@maxlawn1014

___@penceroyal_ you're probably a nightmare in person. i'd hate to know you

It's very satisfying. 

—

In between orders, Andrew unlocks his phone and composes tweet after tweet. Finally, Renee gently bumps him with one sharp elbow.

"Hm," he says, tapping away. "I know, the table in the corner. I'll make their round in a second."

"I already did."

Andrew pauses mid-sentence, looking up. "Oh."

"Since you seemed busy," she adds, no trace of a rebuke in her voice. And because it's Renee, Andrew doesn't suspect she's just thinking it instead. It's why he likes her. She doesn't say things unless she means it.

Andrew considers this and finally says, "It's important." 

And it isn't. (The fools he eviscerates are insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Neil, whose involvement with his Twitter seems to be only the usage of his name, probably never sees their idiotic little rants.) 

And it also really, really is. (Because he could. And somehow, even though Neil is not his anymore, not his _responsibility_ anymore, Andrew cannot seem to let even a faceless stranger's insult go.)

"Okay," Renee nods. 

And that's all. 

When Andrew leaves that night, he walks out without ducking into the storage room, hands holding his phone and nothing else. It's only when he gets home that he realizes he forgot to take any alcohol. 

"Huh," he says, staring blankly into his darkened living room.

Aaron was right, after all. For all their disgusting bathrooms and messy kitchens, at least dorms are always reliably stuffed to the gills with cheap vodka. Meanwhile, Andrew's apartment is rapidly becoming a desert. 

His fridge is empty. There's nothing to drink, not even nonalcoholic. Nothing to eat either. 

Andrew flops onto the couch and flicks the TV on just to fill the room with something and orders Chinese, the real kind, not the Americanized bullshit. He's so hungry that he pays no attention to the program playing until it explodes with a roar of ecstatic noise. He confirms his payment and looks up. 

"...and that'll be it for the Bruins! Quite a close one, they almost had it, but the Ospreys' defense was just too strong this time..."

Andrew stares in disbelief. Onscreen, tiny figures wave racquets and clash them together in celebration. 

It's exy. Always exy, chasing him down wherever he goes. 

"...the Ospreys will be traveling on to meet the Cowboys down in Texas in two days. For a complete schedule of the season, please visit www.nel.com..."

Andrew gives in to the inevitable and types in the address. 

—

Andrew arrives at the Foxhole for his next shift and knows that the Cardinals are in Los Angeles, taking on the Warriors. Unfortunately, it doesn't stop him from looking for Neil every time someone comes in. As if Neil having come through the doors once, twice, means that he'll travel through again. 

"Stupid," he mutters. 

No one comes in with hair close to Neil's coppery shade of red-orange, but he can't stop checking. Andrew starts making eye contact with every single person he serves. It is, to his consternation, much more effective than rolling up his sleeves. Soon, most of the regulars seek out the other bartender instead, even if it's Matt, who can barely remember what 'on the rocks' means. 

"This is horribly inconvenient," he informs Renee towards the end of their shift a day later. 

"I thought this is what you prefer?" Renee calls over her shoulder from where she's refreshing the display bottles. 

"On my terms," Andrew reminds her. 

He downloads the NEL app and checks it every day. Eventually, he memorizes the schedule. Once, he turns up the volume when a Cardinal game is playing. Renee, observing this, says nothing. Andrew is intensely grateful. 

Today, Neil is playing in San Antonio against the Cowboys. 

Tomorrow he's in Boston, against the Patriots. 

On and on and on. 

Andrew learns too much about exy. All of the useless information starts crowding out everything else. His ethics professor hands him back an essay, with a circle around the sentence "Josten's style is aggressive and unforgiving" and a, ’did you mean Descartes's oration?'

Seth eyes him oddly during their first shift together after the whole blood orange thing, but he's back to his old self soon enough. Andrew has little space left in his brain, as it is, and sensibly wastes none of it on him. 

("Bee," Andrew says, dropping down into his usual chair. "Bee, I can't stop thinking about him. This idiot. No, you don't know him.")

If there's a Cardinals game on, Andrew makes sure it's playing across the bar's screens. They're a good team, he reasons. Every game is exciting. Then he viciously shushes a rowdy patron when the announcer starts discussing Josten's averages, and hm. Hm. 

Gradually, Andrew stops bringing a bottle or more home after every shift. His brain is slowly being consumed in statistics, in exy trivia. He can't calculate score rate drunk. He's tried.

—

"Six referees seem like a lot, doesn't it?" Andrew says, in lieu of a greeting. 

Bee taps her chin thoughtfully. "It does feel a bit excessive. I always thought it's one per game. Are they all out on the field at once?" 

"Yes, all on the court, half on each side. Six for professional leagues, four for high school and lower," Andrew says. 

"I see."

Andrew nods. He feels like a snarled ball of string, too knotted and fucked up to unravel. When he was younger, one of his foster mothers had handed him her yarn to untangle. Andrew, yanking to free a thread, had snapped it instead. The bundle had been so tangled that she'd thrown it out instead of trying to find it again. 

"Is this exy? I don't watch any sports, but the term court does sound familiar," Bee offers. 

"Yes," Andrew says. He picks at the bandage on his palm. "I didn't use to either. But, recently. It's caught my eye." 

"I imagine it must be an exhilarating sport."

"They look like they're flying," Andrew says, the image of the number ten floating into the front of his mind. 

Bee hums. "Is that so?"

And for some reason, that's what opens the floodgates. Andrew tells her every last thing he's picked up about exy and Bee promises to watch a game.

—

_The boy sitting in front of him has hair the color of a particularly capricious flame, dancing and flickering, changing when it catches the light. It's copper and rust and burnt sienna and entirely impossible to look away from._

_His name is Neil, he says when it's his turn to introduce himself, and he's a sophomore and a math major._

_Andrew scoffs._

_The boy turns and stares at him. And then, before Andrew can decide how to react, he winks._

_Andrew spends the rest of class staring at the back of his head as the professor goes over the syllabus._

_As soon as class ends, Andrew says, "Why are you taking this literature course if you're a math major."_

_Neil carefully nestles the syllabus within his backpack and looks up. "Hey. Andrew, right? I want to analyze Phantasia. I've read it before, but—,"_

_"Ugh," Andrew says. "Yes, the book that I am taking this course despite."_

_"What?" Neil says, genuinely disbelieving. "It's the reason why I'm taking five classes this semester."_

_"It's ridiculously sappy drivel."_

_"It's a passionate study of fate and human nature," Neil counters._

_"It's entirely unrealistic. Lockwood gives up everything for a person he doesn't even know."_

_"But he does know her," Neil says insistently, his lips tilting upwards. Somehow, all of this is amusing to him. "That's literally what being soulmates means."_

_"Soulmates are stupid," Andrew says flatly._

_"I completely disagree," Neil says, like a fucking idiot. Grinning like a fool. Andrew wants to wreck him. Andrew wants to be wrecked. The thought catches him entirely off guard, enough that it must show on his face._

_"What?" Neil says cautiously._

_"You are an idealistic idiot," Andrew informs him._

_Neil doesn't even have the grace to look fazed. "So I've been told," he says blithely. "Anything else?"_

_And that settles it._

_"Yes," Andrew says, mind made up._

_Neil tilts his head. "Well?"_

_The classroom has emptied out since they started talking. The last person through the door shut it firmly behind them. Andrew leans forward._

_As it turns out, once Neil stops talking, he makes for delightful company._

—

"I watched the game last night," Bee says as Andrew comes in. "I enjoyed it. You were right, they really are agile. Especially that one, um, what's the term? Striker?"

"Ah," Andrew says, pronouncing each word carefully. "Yes. I'm glad you liked it." He eases into his seat. 

"Andrew," Bee says, watching him splay his legs under the coffee table. "Are you o—,"

"He's fast, isn't he?"

"Who are you referring to?"

"The striker. Josten. The one you mentioned. He's the one I was thinking of when I said they look like they're flying," Andrew says, the words coming easily, far more so than usual. It's convenient, stepping outside of his body with the help of a few glasses. It's much simpler to view his life as an observer. 

Bee, uncharacteristically, hesitates. "I see," she eventually says. "But Andrew, are you...have you...I don't...did you drink before coming?"

"This isn't going to work if you don't cooperate," Andrew notes. "I can't have you getting all sentimental on me." 

"We can't continue if you are inebriated, it would be entirely unprofessional and against my—,"

"Don't make me say it." 

"Andrew—,"

"Bee. _Please_." It tears out of his throat like bile, coating his tongue with bitterness and rot. 

( _Beg for it, oh yes, good boy, say it and I'll—)_

Even alcohol can't dull everything. What a pity. Andrew stares down at his empty hands and wishes he'd brought the Everclear with him, even if it would have meant that Bee absolutely wouldn't have let the session continue. 

"I understand," Bee says, frowning, looking down at her notepad. "Okay." She shudders. "Just this once." She's so clearly uncomfortable, but Andrew is beyond caring. This isn't going to be nice and cozy. He just needs her to listen. She doesn't have to be thrilled about it. 

"Two years ago, I met an idiot in my Fatal Designs in Literature course." He pauses to take a candy from the little bowl in the centre of the table. 

"I took the class because the idea of predestination intrigued me. Was I always fated to live my life as I have? Was it my destiny to be trapped under the hands of others?" Andrew unwraps it and pops it into his mouth. Strawberry. Acceptable. "It's an interesting question, isn't it?" 

"Yes," Bee says steadily. Andrew eyes her. "I can see exactly why the concept caught your attention. But you mentioned...an 'idiot'?"

Andrew smiles wide. "Right! So I did." He leans forward. "He's still an idiot," he confides theatrically. "Shh! Don't tell anyone I said that." He shrugs, leaning back again. "Or do, I don't care." 

"Anyways, about an hour after I met him, I fucked him in our classroom," he says. 

"Was this idiot a fellow classmate?" 

"You think I went for a professor? I'm shocked," Andrew says, waving a finger around lazily. "No, he's a student. Was, actually. I don't think he has much time for studying on the court." 

Bee's pen pauses. "The court?"

"Oops," Andrew says. "I was doing so well at obfuscating his identity. Too bad. But yes. The court." 

"One moment," Bee says, flicking briskly through her notes. "Is this the same 'idiot' you mentioned a month ago? On November fifteenth?"

"Yes," Andrew says. 

"The one who ordered drinks from you at work?"

Andrew rolls the candy around on his tongue. It's sickeningly sweet. "That's him," he confirms. 

"Anyways, it was great. The sex, I mean. In general, too, not just that first time. Terrible personality, great sex. He's really an asshole, you know."

"Is that so?"

"I don't want to be here," Andrew says. "Not like that. I mean, I didn't move because I wanted to be here. I just didn't want to be _there."_

"It takes courage to realize that, and even more to actually remove yourself from a situation," Bee says.

Andrew waves her off. "No. Coming here was running away. I told myself it wasn't, but it's always been the truth. I thought Neil was a coward for a long time, but really, it's me. I'm quite a pathetic person, you know. I grew up, freed myself of one cage, and then immediately fell into another one."

"Andrew," Bee says carefully. "Are you saying that Neil did what Drake did to you?" 

Andrew bites down on the candy reflexively. It splinters into little shards under his teeth. The words land heavily in his ears, rattling around his skull too fast for him to catch them, to understand. For a moment, he thinks he's about to throw up, the bile already flooding his mouth. Then he realizes it was a sour candy. What he's tasting is the gooey center.

"No," he croaks, lurching to his feet. "He wasn't—He never— _No!"_

Bee is wrong, of course, but the terrifying thing is that she's also right. 

Neil never did what Drake did, never did anything he didn't want, but he said "we're meant for each other" like it was a blessing, like it was something holy, and Drake had said _we're meant for each other_ like the curse it was, pressed it into his skin with each touch, and so really, is the answer...

Yes? 

And the thought really brings bile up now, and it's more bitter than the candy ever was (how could he have mistaken it for anything else?). 

Andrew presses a hand to his mouth, swallows hard, and walks away. "No," he says, "no." 

"Wait," Bee says, standing. 

And because it is Bee, only because it's her, he does, swaying gently in the doorway. 

"Did you drive here?"

Andrew laughs wildly. "No, my dear busy bee. Of course not. That wasn't the point of this." He casts a glance backward, just in time to see her shoulders relax. It stirs something in him. Something vicious. "And, anyway, there are easier ways to go about that sort of thing, isn't there?" 

Bee flinches, her gaze darting automatically to his arms. When she looks up, he catches her with his eyes. "See? You do know," he says. 

He steps out of her office, bringing the door shut behind him. "But don't worry. I'll see you next Tuesday."

"Andrew," she says, but this time he doesn't turn around. 

—

The problem is that Andrew has always hoped too much, dreamed of impossible things. As a child, he envisions a lovely fate for himself, filled with love and happiness. 

But destiny doesn't lead him to very nice places. 

And the dream changes gradually. There is no soulmate, because the horrible man two families ago took his mark away. He stops picturing a perfect ending, just hopes against hope for an okay one, and if not that, then one that is his, just his, where he doesn't have to cry under the weight of anyone. 

So when Drake says _we're meant for each other,_ Andrew takes his fate into his own hands and accepts the consequences gleefully because the prize is everything he's dreamed of. 

It's no one leaving toothmarks along his shoulders or clasping his side, squeezing hard enough to make his ribs creak. It's belonging to no one and nothing but himself. 

And then Neil comes along and says, "we're meant for each other," and before Andrew can even process it, Drake rears up like a viper and speaks the words too, directly into his brain. Like Andrew had never killed him at all, like he'd only gone to sleep all those years ago, just waiting for the day he'd take Andrew in hand again. 

Andrew, for all his caution, underestimated Drake. The bastard. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on this chapter for I think five or six days straight, and I'd written some of it at least a week before that too. I've had the rest of this fic outlined since I published chapter three, but this one was really hard and the ending surprised me too. (I promise things get better from here, truly.) Honestly, this fic has been such a bear and I'm not sure why.
> 
> Please let me know what you think! There are so many moments in this chapter that I'm excited to share at last and others that make me wince but demanded to be included. 
> 
> <3! see you next time

**Author's Note:**

> Comments nourish my soul :))
> 
> Come talk with me on tumblr and twitter @ubilupus!


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